Rivers

March 6, 2011 § Leave a comment

1.

We spent the summer in the same bed, lying in that warm room for hours. The panels that covered the floor were not made of real wood and besides they were already stained. The walls stunk of plaster still, and seamed to be covered in a thin white layer of dust.  I shared that room from May to October, with the invading smells of food from the kitchen, and a small mouse. I barely had any furniture and my single bed kept breaking. At some point, we removed the mattress and left it on the floor, next to the piled up books in that bookshelf that was broken down. I had set up a curtain over the window that gave onto the balcony and another hiding my closet.

It was on that Sunday morning that you taught me how to fry eggs. I ate eggs on toast for the first time in 5 years and you chopped up tomatoes on the side. We watched Planet Earth on the living room couch, stretched on each other.

That summer, the Compassion Club was still open on the corner of Rachel and St Dominique and you would get the best kind of weed. I wouldn’t smoke unless I was coming down off something, unless it was your weed. But you, you’d smoke blunts every few hours and your hair smelled of green, and I loved that.

 

2.

That morning, he woke up in the hot hot room and she was still stretching. He walked out onto the deck and lit his first Belmont of the day. It was 2 in the afternoon, and it had rained. He climbed on the broken ladder to the rooftop. He stared down onto the main.

It was mid August, the asphalt and the bricks smelled of burnt tires and sweat. The main echoed in roars, a roman amphitheater hungry and swallowing lives and even more lives, leaving but the stench of moldy wine and dead smokes.

She was downstairs, lying face to the wall. She pulled up the sheet, covering her breasts. She was waiting for him, craving breakfast. 
He chose to let her lie there a little more, and went to buy eggs, bread and tomatoes. She had never seen anyone fry tomatoes before; she made coffee.

 

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